


The Masquerade of the Red Death

by okapi



Series: Spooky & Kooky (the Halloween fics) [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cock Worship, Corsetry, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Daddy Kink, Drugged Smoke, Exhibitionism, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, Kink Exploration, Kinktober, Kinktober 2018, Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgy, Pet Play, Praise Kink, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex, Ridiculous Plot, Rimming, Shibari, Shotgunning, Voyeurism, Wrestling, ass worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-07-21 03:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16151168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: On the hunt for a serial killer, Sherlock & John attend a masked orgy.For Kinktober 2018. Friends to Lovers. Kink Exploration. Scooby-Doo type plot. Inspired by "The Masque of the Red Death" by Edgar Allan Poe.





	1. Masks

**Author's Note:**

> Note: my masterlist for Kinktober and Hallowe'en is available on [DW](https://stonepicnicking-okapi.dreamwidth.org/2853.html). I plan to write something for every day of Kinktober but they won't always be in this story or fandom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Kinktober Day 1 - Masks.

“A serial killer who calls himself the Red Death,” murmured John as he surveyed the scene with a grimace.

Sherlock halted his examination, righted himself, and recited,

“ _’Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood_.’”

John raised an eyebrow.

“Poe,” explained Sherlock.

“Poe Dameron said that? Doubtful,” chirped Anderson as he advanced towards Sherlock. “Are you done?”

“Edgar Allan Poe,” said Sherlock tersely. “And yes.” He snapped off a pair of plastic gloves. “Come on, John, it’s one of my favourite games: catch-me-before-I-kill-again.”

* * *

Sherlock studied the gold calligraphy on the card. “Prince Prospero’s Masked Ball,” he read. “Tonight.”

“You think the Red Death will be there?” asked John.

“Oh, yes,” said Sherlock, returning the card to Mycroft. “He wouldn’t miss it. In fact, the earlier deaths were probably mere rehearsal for tonight’s performance.”

“Hell!” swore John under his breath. Then he nodded toward the card. “Is that our invitation?”

Mycroft’s expression changed. He glanced at Sherlock.

Sherlock began, “John, you needn’t—”

“Oh, no! You’re barking, Sherlock, if you’re thinking of going after this monster by yourself. Out of the question. If I’m not coming, you’re not going.”

“Very well,” said Mycroft, then he added diplomatically, “but you are at liberty, Doctor Watson, to change your mind when you hear the particulars of the event.”

“Particulars?” echoed John. “Masked ball. Fancy dress. Posh. Who is this Prince Prospero?”

“Oh, just a man of eccentric and august taste and unlimited means who has decided to host an event of unusual magnificence for one thousand of his halest, most light-hearted friends at a castellated abbey in the country. The doors will be bolted at six o’clock in the evening and no one may enter or leave until after midnight.”

“Evidently, he likes a captive audience,” said John dryly.

“Indeed,” agreed Mycroft.

“The lay of the land, please,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft produced a map and unrolled it across his desk.

“Here’s the central courtyard, very large,” he pointed, “there will be small stages for entertainment as well as performers mingling amongst the crowd. One side is a café; the other, a dance floor. Corridors lead from the central courtyard to seven separate chambers. There is a first floor with balconies looking onto the courtyard…”

Mycroft continued until John interrupted.

“What about the seven chambers?”

A glance passed between the Holmes brothers.

A grin spread across John’s face as the penny dropped. “Is this an _orgy_ , you blighters?”

Mycroft coughed. “I’m given to understand an imaginative range of predilections will be entertained in the chambers.”

There was a silence. Mycroft and Sherlock looked at John, who huffed.

“If you think a bunch of pervs are going to prevent me from catching a serial killer, you’re mad.”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, then he said, “The sex could be a distraction.”

“True,” admitted John, “But I’ll chance it. What about you?”

“Sex doesn’t distract me!” scoffed Sherlock.

“It’s settled then,” said John. He turned to Mycroft. “So, what’s the plan?”

* * *

It’s the masks, thought John. Give someone a mask and they’ll consider it a license do anything.

Even murder.

John stood at the edge of the courtyard holding a tray of champagne flutes. He was listening, like everyone else, to six chimes of a grandfather clock, which was the signal of the commencement of the ball.

The lights dimmed, and a spotlight shown on a costumed figure standing alone on one of the balconies.

Eyes lifted. Heads turned.

“Welcome!” boomed a deep voice. The figure was completely swathed, hooded and robed, in dark draping fabric and wore a black Plague Doctor’s mask, the tip of which was gleamed silver in the spotlight. “Tonight, we celebrate the beautiful, the wanton, the bizarre, the terrible!”

Cheers rang out.

“The world without can take care of itself! Tonight, it is folly to grieve—even to think! Only revel!”

Laughter. Whistles. Applause.

“Let the ball begin!”

“That’s my cue,” said John. Then he launched himself into the crowd.

It is the masks, John thought once more as he returned, collecting empty flutes.

The guests wore silver and gold masks.

The staff wore brown masks.

The performers—musicians, dancers, and other artists—wore blue ones.

John had spotted Sherlock amongst the orchestra, but he knew that Sherlock would not remain there for long. They needed the freedom to move about, and soon Sherlock would slip away to be one of the mingling itinerant performers.

Yes, they needed to move, but they also needed to blend in wherever they were and that’s where their clever costumes came in.

John’s and Sherlock’s masks and clothing could be reversed. Whenever it proved more advantageous for them to be guests instead of waiter and musician, they could find a dark corner, of which there were many John was discovering, and transform themselves into guests. John spent all afternoon changing back and forth until he could do it swiftly and silently.

He refilled the tray with drinks, then wound his way again through the throng, continuing to orient himself to the courtyard and its occupants.

There were lives at stake, actual human lives, he reminded himself. He could not be distracted by plunging necklines and tight breeches.

Or masks.

But everything was, he admitted, dazzling.

He circled around a pair who had already begun to surreptitiously grope each other.

John decided that if his gorgeous flatmate wanted to do more than observe activities in the seven chambers, that was fine, and if Sherlock, by any chance, wanted John to participate to keep up the farce, well, that would be quite all right, too.

John, for his part, was willing to indulge his own predilections and aide others in indulging theirs—provided it didn’t interfere with the case, of course.

The case came first. Lives at stake.

John felt something being pressed into his palm. He passed to the far side of the room before he uncurled his hand. The note was in a handwriting John knew as well as his own.

_Blue Room_.


	2. The Blue Room (Ass Worship)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John visits the Blue Room. Sherlock waits outside, playing the violin.
> 
> For 2018 Kinktober Day 2 - Ass Worship. Note: references to Med Play but no graphic descriptions of Med Play.

Sherlock needed a smoke, but he settled for playing Paganini’s Caprices with diabolical fervour.

The Blue Room was at the easternmost extremity of the abbey. After abandoning his place in the orchestra, Sherlock had made his way down the corridor towards it, playing slowly.

He’d made a reconnaissance pass through the room. Outside there was a brazier of fire on a heavy tripod and it projected its rays through a series of tall, narrow Gothic windows of blue-stained glass. And so, the entire space was bathed in an eerie azure light that produced gaudy and fantastic shadows all about. And it wasn’t just the shadows that were blue in colour, the whole chamber was hung—and tiled—in shades of blue. There was even a bouquet of lilies the colour of Sherlock’s favourite scarf arranged most macabrely in a vase made of human skulls.

Seeing nothing related to the case, Sherlock had settled to the side of the chamber entrance. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted John, now dressed as a guest in a mask of fanning silver quills. Sherlock gave John a minute nod as he approached, and coins clinked in Sherlock’s violin case as John passed.

Time for the doctor to play doctor.

Sherlock was struck by a pang of envy for the revelers who followed in John’s wake. John’s natural advantage would be thoroughly appreciated by anyone hungry for thoughtful and thorough examinations of the physical kind. And Sherlock knew firsthand that John’s bedside manner was to die for. No small amount of will was required to prevent Sherlock’s treacherous transport from responding to John’s touch whenever John patched Sherlock up after a case.

How would it feel to have that touch, that doctor’s touch, everywhere? Fingers mapping the body like cartographer’s tools…

Sherlock jettisoned the thought at once. Wouldn’t do to get distracted.

And Sherlock didn’t, as a rule, fancy shiny surgical instruments or hospital gowns, but he was secretly, quite secretly, that is, fond of John’s mother hen moods, the coaxing Sherlock to eat or nagging him to sleep or suggesting a run or a swim or simply an evening ramble and ‘some fresh air.’ Sherlock supposed that was more nursing than doctoring, but, still, it was nice.

Sherlock listened.

Moans and groans, but none were John’s. He was playing his part well but not getting carried away.

Good.

Sherlock switched from Paganini to something even more romantic. He’d told John that it was by Mendelssohn, and John, musical illiterate that he was, never questioned it. Sherlock had composed the song himself to soothe John as he slept. John’s nightmares were a thing of past, thankfully, but Sherlock still played it from time to time partly because it never failed to bring a broad, warm smile to John’s face. He was probably smiling even now, no matter who or what he was probing and prodding.

But, tonight, the song wasn’t for pure pleasure, it bore a message. John would hear it and know that they needed to continue to the next chamber.

Sherlock had not seen anything suspicious.

Time to move on.

But as Sherlock bent to place the violin and bow in their case, he caught a passing glimpse of a hand and a wrist peeking out of a dark robe.

A red spot.

The Red Death’s stigmata!

With his eyes alone, Sherlock’s followed the cloaked figure as it continued down the corridor. The figure halted, and Sherlock could see the pointed Plague Doctor’s beak had a red tip. Then figure made as if to turn back towards Sherlock.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt a single sharp pain in his chest. Then the pain left him, and John’s voice was tickling his ear.

“Nice tune. It’s Mendelssohn, right?”

Sherlock spoke softly and quickly.

“Throw me against the opposite wall and bury your face in my arse.”

WHAM!

And not for the first time, Sherlock blessed the soldier who followed orders without question or hesitation.

Sherlock’s arms went up to cushion the impact, and he turned his head toward the corridor. Now he could see the shadow of the dark-robed figure, but not the figure itself. And most importantly, the figure couldn’t see Sherlock or John. Even with the masks and costume changes, Sherlock wanted to preserve their anonymity for as long as possible.

Sherlock watched the shadow. It grew a bit larger, then stopped again.

Waiting.

John was on his knees, his head tucked beneath Sherlock’s coattails. His hands were roughly massaging Sherlock’s buttocks, his fingers kneading, positively worshipping Sherlock’s flesh with surprising strength. Really throwing himself into the part, Sherlock mused, as John’s thumbs worked into the divide.

Sherlock quickly reminded himself to use the pun later in conversation. John would laugh. He loved puns.

A passerby growled, “Lucky bastard.”

Sherlock hummed. He _was_ a lucky bastard. John’s face was now pressed into the cleft of his arse.

When John’s puckered lips pressed through the fabric of the breeches, Sherlock lost his resolve and instinctively closed his eyes. He realised his folly a moment too late. When he opened his eyes, the mysterious shadow was gone.

Damn!

Sherlock’s only consolation was that John had moved on to biting Sherlock’s buttocks.

Sherlock bent lower, gently pushing back into John’s mouth. His prick stiffened, and he wondered vaguely which chamber would be appropriate for pulling down one’s breeches and allowing one’s flatmate to sink his teeth into on one’s bare flesh.

Later, perhaps, all of them. Perhaps as the ball progressed, one might even be welcome to do it right here in the corridor.

But not now. It was too early. The clock had only struck seven whilst John had been inside the Blue Room. Per instruction, everyone had halted, including Sherlock, until the seventh note had rung out; then everyone, including Sherlock, had resumed their prior acts without comment.

No, there was no time for wanton indulgence now.

There was the case.

Sherlock’s left hand dropped. He brushed John’s cheek, and John, wonderful, almost prescient John, ceased his ministrations.

“Did you see him?” John was now standing directly behind Sherlock, their bodies touching. Even through jacket and shirt, Sherlock felt John’s breath warm the spot between his shoulder blades.

Sherlock didn’t turn, but he dropped his chin to his chest and kept his voice at a low whisper.

“Perhaps. I thought I saw his stigmata on a hand. I can’t be certain. It might have been something else. Henna, birthmark…”

“Did you feel anything?”

“Oh, yes, you were wonderful. So convincing, in fact, that If you don’t mind, stand here a moment until the evidence of my arousal dissipates.”

John chuckled. “I don’t mean the stiff one in your pants, you tosser.”

“I’m not wearing pants.”

“You think I don’t know that?! I meant did you feel anything when you thought you saw the serial killer. Any of those fits you’ve been having at the crime scenes?”

“Hardly ‘fits,’ John.”

“You’re in this bloke’s head, Sherlock, or his victims’ bodies, or both. I don’t know what it is, and I’m probably too stupid to understand it even if you explained it to me. I just want you safe. And that’s why I’d never let you go after him on your own—even if it means I have to be your own personal rent boy for the night.”

Now there was an idea.      

“Or vice-versa,” added Sherlock, trying to keep his voice as nonchalant as possible.

“I wish,” huffed John.

Oh, really?

Well, well, well.

Sherlock pressed his lips together.

Not now. Close that Pandora’s box and save it for later.

“So, what now?” asked John.

Oh, the case! If it wasn’t anything but a serial killer, Sherlock’s favourite, he would have been tempted to abandon it right then and there.

“Well, I, for one, would like to go up to the balcony for a smoke.”

“No,” replied John grinding his resolute chin into Sherlock’s shoulder. “You’re doing so good with the smoking, Sherlock. Don’t give up now.”

“Just one cigarette? I mean this silver hedgehog—” Sherlock nodded in the direction of John’s mask.

“It’s Shakespeare, you wanker. I’m a fretful porcupine, you know, fretting about my nutter flatmate who has fits and goes after serial killers.”

“Whatever. This masked woodland rodent was just all up in my arse. Very pleasant, I might add, but it does things to a fellow’s head. And as for you, I expect you’ve had a trying shift in there, Doctor.” He raised his eyebrows.

“It was fine,” said John. “But I didn’t see anybody with the marks we’re looking for.”

“One cigarette, John. Then I’ll let you have your wicked way with me.”

“Sherlock! Lives at stake!”

The chastising whine was pleasantly sobering. Sherlock’s prick softened.

“The smoker’s balcony affords an excellent view for surveillance, John,” he remarked.

It was a trick. Sherlock knew that John would cave if he mentioned the case, but he would make a counteroffer, which Sherlock was prepared to accept without qualm.

“Three drags. Let’s change. I want to see you in your blonde weasel mask.”

“It’s a golden otter, John!”

“Of course, it is. See you up there in ten, sweet cheeks.”

John gave Sherlock’s bottom a playful squeeze, and Sherlock fought hard to stifle a silly grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's symptoms are a nod to the Edgar Allan Poe story that inspired the fic, "The Mask of the Red Death": _There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores._


	3. The Balcony (Shotgunning)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John on the smokers' balcony. 
> 
> For Kinktober Day 5 - Shotgunning.

It was but the work of a moment to convince a balcony attendant to take a break.

John emptied ash trays and lit cigarettes and fetched whiskey and sodas. He moved efficiently, silently, and unnoticed by all save one.

Or rather two.

“Bollocks,” said the posh old gent who stood beside Sherlock at the railing. They were looking out onto the courtyard below, their backs to John, as he passed by.

“Hullo, do us a favour, will you?” called the posh old gent to John, whose appearance was porcine in the extreme, right down to his mask, which John supposed was meant to be a wild Erymanthian boar but looked more like a Sunday ham that hadn’t gone to market.

“Certainly, sir,” said John.

“I mean, you’re paid to take what comes, right?”

“Precisely, sir.”

“Well, then be a chap and win me a fiver, eh?”

And with that, the swine wobbled towards John and took a long, noisy draw on his cigarette. His cheeks puffed, his eyes glazed, and then he bellowed out two fat lungfuls of smoke directly at John’s face.

John stood motionless, his expression stoic, as the vapour swirled ‘round then dissipated. When his assailant had finished coughing and sputtering, he asked calmly,

“Will that be all, sir?”

“See?” grunted he of the casting-pearls-before lot. “What’d I tell you? Nothing sexy about it! Now pay up!”

“Wait a moment,” said Sherlock. His voice was a low, well-bred rumble that might have conjured up the word ‘rake’ if John had any propensity towards a certain class of fiction. “You’ve not allowed me a counter demonstration. Your technique lacks a certain _je ne se quoi_. Forgive my friend here, excuse me, what’s your name?”

“John.”

“Well, John, if you’ll once more pardon a couple of blighters who ought to know better, I’ll make it well worth your while.”

John didn’t miss the singular pronoun in the statement or its implicit promise, but he realised he _had_ missed something else: Sherlock had been mingling about the smokers’ balcony for the better part of twenty minutes, but he hadn’t been smoking himself.

It was only now that he produced a cigarette case.

He opened the case. He removed a cigarette. He closed the case. He tapped the end of the cigarette against the platinum.

Like Cary Grant.

When Sherlock glanced at John, the cigarette was dangling between his lips, and John, banishing images of end-stage emphysema, admitted that he rather liked the way Sherlock spoke around it to ask,

“Light?”

John struck a match. He liked the motion of the strike. He liked the sound of the spark. He liked the Promethean whoosh of fire springing to life. He knew he was Peter Lorre to Sherlock’s leading man, but he didn’t mind.

It _was_ sexy.

Sherlock bent closer as John brought the flame to the end of the cigarette. Their eyes met momentarily, and a flash of dilated pupils was enough to reassure John he wasn’t alone in this seduction.

One drag, one turn of the head, one exhale.

That was one of three. Sherlock was a tit, but he was sporting tit.

“All right, John. This won’t hurt a bit.”

One drag, one step forward, one rounding of those perfect lips at half a breath’s distance from John’s.

Instinctively, John opened his mouth and sucked the smoky whorls right down his gullet.

It was a slow and gentle dance, leading, following, Sherlock’s lisping give to John’s lapping take, which left the two participants, and at least one spectator, rather breathless.

“Gahwl!” snuffled the hog. “Need to learn that trick.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, regaining his composure. “It is a doozy. I think I need a smoke.” He took a third drag. “Oh, if you’re keen, they’re giving lessons in the Blue Room.”

“Is that right? Well, then, must be getting along.” Peppa’s portly uncle extended his hand to pass the winnings to Sherlock and, with a truffle-rooting grunt, tottered off.

John turned his head, covering his mouth with his hand as he exhaled. He offered Sherlock an ash tray.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you,” said Sherlock, stubbing out his cigarette. Then he lowered his voice. “The Jeeves act brings out the worst in me, John.”

“I’ll remember that. You’d make a good dragon, by the way. So, did you see anything, you know, _related to the case_?”

“I saw someone crossing below. I couldn’t see his hand, of course. It might have been the figure I saw earlier. Or it might have been our mysterious host. Interesting how their costumes favour one another from a distance. Well, let’s see the Purple Room. How do you feel about corsets?”

“No, Sherlock! In no world am I squeezing myself into—”

“Of course not,” replied Sherlock with a wink.


	4. The Purple Room (Daddy. Corset. Cock worship)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gives a performance. Oral sex. Warning for drugged smoke. 
> 
> For Kinktober Day 6 - Daddy / Corset / Cock Worship.

Even if he couldn’t find Sherlock, John was certain he was in the right room.

The stained glass in the windows was purple. The tapestries on the walls were purple. The ornaments on the tiny tables were purple. Indeed, the tiny tables themselves and the chairs beside them were purple. The lilies in grotesque vases were purple. The tiny stage and the curtains on either side of it were, of course, purple.

The light that poured in through the stained glass was purple and so strong that it even gave a purple tinge to the candle light which served to augment the interior illumination.

John slipped into the last vacant chair just as the music began.

“Dearest friends, dear gentlemen, listen to my song…”

The singer was not Sherlock.

John looked about, trying not to, as Sherlock as warned against, ‘be obvious’ and also trying not to knock his elbow against the purple elephant with the purple candle sticking out of its back.

Just as the music swelled, the curtains drew back.

“…hey fellas!”

Dear God.

Something in John recognised Sherlock, but it was difficult to reconcile the yellow weasel, very well, _golden otter_ Cary Grant in evening dress who had just been smoking on the balcony with the, five, six, seventh from the right in the dance line behind the singer.

They wore purple masks with gold beaks; purple corsets with gold trim; purple knickers which, yes, John observed when the line turned and wiggled, had no bottom to them; tall purple shoes which looked dangerous and uncomfortable. Each of the dancers held a large fan of purple-and-gold plumes, which, John observed with some surprise, Sherlock was quite adroit at wielding.

Sherlock shimmied. He shook. He swung his hips. He bounced. He did all sorts of things with that fan, the names of which John did not know.

 _I’ll make it worth your while._ That's what Sherlock had said on the balcony.

When the shock wore off, John supposed it was worth a dose of second-hand smoke to see his gorgeous flatmate prancing about like purple peacock.

Then, of course, with an invisible smack to his forehead, John realised, that’s what they were meant to be, what with the plumes, the beaked masks, and whatnot.

Purple peacocks.

As the song ended, a queue comprised of the singer and the dancers wound itself among the tables. One-by-one, the performers peeled off to flirt with members of the audience. By the time Sherlock, who was near the end of the queue, reached John, who was seated on the far right of the stage, there was plenty of lap-sitting, groping, and corset-unlacing underway.  

“Hello, Daddy.”

WHOOMP!

In a quick sequence, John snatched the fan from Sherlock’s hand and slapped it shut on the little table, extinguishing the elephant’s candle, but, thankfully, not catching anything on fire.

Then John grabbed Sherlock and threw him over his knee.

“Oh, Daddy!” squealed Sherlock in a high falsetto as John pummeled his buttocks with the closed fan.

With the flick of a wrist, John opened the fan and, using it as a screen, hid his face as he bent low and hissed in Sherlock’s ear,

“What part of this is blending in?! You are on a platform in platforms and nothing else!”

Sherlock lifted his torso and wiggled his legs and cried out, “Oh, Daddy, have I been that bad?” Then he dropped back below the cover of the fan and muttered under his breath, “That’s clever but not entirely true, John. I’m also wearing a Victorian torture device that makes it very difficult to breathe!”

He then threw his head back, giggled loudly and sighed,

“Oh, Daddy, give it to me good!”

John’s temper snapped, and he repeated the ritual once more: slapping the fan shut, whacking Sherlock’s buttocks, which were bare save for the thin strip of black down the cleft, then opening the fan and whispering behind it.

“What’s with the Daddy stuff?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to hiss.

“Only a few chosen ‘Daddies’ will get to go behind the purple curtain, and there’s something back there I want to investigate!”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“I just did!”

With that, John gave the fan a toss and brought his bare hand down on Sherlock’s buttock over and over while Sherlock flailed and cooed.

Soon John heard a voice, which he recognised as belonging to the singer. “C’mon, pet, let’s take our Daddies some place special.”

* * *

The clock chimed seven. Everyone in the darkened space stopped and listened. Only the flames of the purple candles flickered in rebellion.

Then, as soon as the chimes had ceased, the grunts and sighs and oaths and hums of cock-bearers and cock-worshippers resumed at full force.

“See the tapestry of St. George and the Dragon?”

John gave a quick nod. His back was to the wall. The purple tapestry hung to his right, about twenty paces away.

Sherlock was undulating. He did resemble the iconic gold dragon in his twisted death throes, but his voice was scarcely more than a breath in John’s ear.

“There’s a passage behind it. Not on Mycroft’s map. Hiding spot?”

‘How’ mouthed John as Sherlock kissed his cheek.

“Don’t know how it opens. That’s why I need you to watch.”

‘While you…?’ mouthed John.

But Sherlock was down on his knees.

Like at least two others in the room, John opened the fan and held it upside down, shielding Sherlock’s head and shoulders from view. But most of the Daddies and their pets weren’t indulging in any gestures of modesty. They were lying on short sofas, sitting in and kneeling before chairs, or writhing on the rugs.

Cocks being sucked. Mouths being fucked.

John’s prick stiffened as he watched and listened. He leaned hard against the stone wall and looked down.

Like all the cocksuckers in the room, Sherlock had shifted his mask to the top of his head, but unlike the rest, his face was a breath’s distance from John’s crotch.

John stared at the purple peacock, and the purple peacock stared at John. Then John used his free hand to reach down and caress Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock looked up.

John looked down. His expression asked,

‘How in the fuck did we get here, Sherlock?’

The reply was a roll of the eyes and a look that retorted,

‘How the fuck do we get anywhere, John?’

John smiled and shook his head.  

Then Sherlock’s eyes darted sharply toward the wall, and John remembered what he was supposed to be doing.

He gave a fake moan and dropped his head back until it hit hard against the wall. He let his eyelids droop and his mouth hang open, but he kept his gaze on his target. He began to rock back and forth on his heels.

Then he smelled something. Not sex. Something else.

It was difficult to see by the light of the candles, but it looked like a purple ribbon of smoke curling through the air.

Incense of some kind. Not heavy. Not unpleasant. And, John observed, he seemed to be the only one that noticed it. Everyone else was otherwise absorbed.

He looked down.

Sherlock was frowning and shaking his head like a wet dog.

Tapestry! Eyes on the tapestry!

But it was difficult because the noises seemed to grow louder and the fucking, unless John was mistaken, was growing more frantic.

And John’s prick was so bloody hard. If he could just…

Oh, thank goodness.

Sherlock was unfastening John’s belt and taking John’s cock out of his trousers.

John felt much better.

And if Sherlock felt like licking it, just a bit, to edge off, well, that would be…

Tapestry!

John could only keep a half-cracked eye on it because Sherlock’s lips were teasing his prickhead.

“Fuck,” he sighed as Sherlock’s tongue travelled up and down his shaft. John’s fingers were curled in Sherlock’s hair, and he was pushing, pushing, pushing his painfully hard prick into a warm, welcoming...

Tapestry!

Oh, that was okay.

Because Saint George had left the confines of the woven scene and was now in the middle of the room, getting his sword polished by the dragon.

John giggled. And he wasn’t the only one.

There was laughter and shrieks and groans and squeals.

And the purple smoke, growing thicker, smelling sweeter.

And…something black…moving carefully through the room…a shadow…it was stepping carefully around the saint-and-dragon tableau…slipping behind the tapestry…

“AR—!”

John swallowed his cry of pain and, indeed, for a moment, forgot it entirely.

He saw a hand, a hand that appeared from a dark sleeve to touched one of the bricks on the wall.

John looked down.

Sherlock was crumpled in a ball at John’s feet.

John dropped, covering them both with the fan.

“Clothes?” he hissed.

Sherlock gave a weak wave towards the pillar beside John.

Then, with his collar pulled up over his nose, John found the wrapped bundle hidden in the base of the pillar. Then he quickly buttoned his own trousers.

“Come on, baby, let’s get out of here,” he said, lifting Sherlock in his arms.

They slipped behind the tapestry and right through the secret door just as the Purple Room began to erupt in orgasms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is from The Rat Trap scene in _The Great Mouse Detective_.


	5. The Tunnel. (Praise kink. Handjob)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys take a break in the tunnel. Praise kink. Handjob.
> 
> For Kinktober 2018 Day 7 - Praise Kink.

Tucked as he was in a shallow alcove, Sherlock was grateful for two things: the darkness of the tunnel and his own state of undress. The first because it hid his shame. The second because it gave him something to remedy while John did his reconnaissance tour.

Sherlock listened to John’s footfall and breath, even and regular, but growing louder, and he knew that John was about to indulge in one of his favourite pastimes: stating the obvious.

The light from John’s match went out.

“It’s clear, Sherlock.”

“Of course, it is.”

“How are you doing?”

“Fine!”

A bit Not Good, that. Too harsh for someone who’d just rescued the drugged arse who bit him.

Now was the time to say it.

Say it!

“I’m sorry, John.”

“For?”

Sherlock huffed. It wasn’t like John to make things difficult.

“For sucking your cock, then biting it!”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not.”

“That smoke was drugged.”

Oh, the obvious, John, always the obvious!

“Yes, but that still doesn’t make it all right, at least not without a conversation prior, and the other, well, that’s certainly not on, I think, regardless of discussion…”

There was a hand in Sherlock’s hair, cupping the back of his head, low, at the curve that met the nape. He was holding it steady while his thumb rubbed consolingly.

Sherlock fought with himself. He ought to step away, not shirk, not recoil, nothing cold or rejecting, just step calmly away, but the gesture, the warmth, the nearness felt so good, so right, so John, and he, Sherlock, needed it so much. With the latest encounter with the Red Death, Sherlock had just begun to feel he was out of his depth, and that scared him. He needed John close. He needed John believing in him, the way only John did, and protecting him the way that only John would.

Sherlock’s shirt and trousers hung unfastened, unbuttoned on his frame, and his prick began to stir as John spoke.

“It wasn’t pleasant, Sherlock, I’ll give you that, but it was probably the only thing that would’ve woke me up from that stupor. If it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t have seen the trigger for the secret door. I wouldn’t have been able to drag your arse out of there.”

“Miscalculation, mine. Won’t happen again,” mumbled Sherlock, but he wasn’t really paying attention to John’s words, just the tone, God, it was like milky tea, and he was curling into John’s hand, like a contented cat, and feeling that thumb, that thumb, which wasn’t stopping its caress.

So simple. So intimate. So constant.

Like John.

“It was him, wasn’t it, the Red Death? It was him that passed through the room. He was using the smoke as a screen. You can feel him. You were hurting.”

Not trusting his voice, Sherlock simply nodded.

John’s other hand came ‘round; now both were cradling Sherlock’s head.

“You’re going to get this bastard, Sherlock. You’re brilliant, and you don’t give up.”

Don’t, don’t, don’t…

But John felt the tremour that coursed through Sherlock’s body.

Of course, he did.

“Like that, do you?”

“As much as you like stating the obvious, John.”

It was a pathetic jab, but Sherlock was hard, and he didn’t want to be hard, he didn’t want to be losing control at a bit of petting and a kind word. But the kind words kept coming, low and soft and so bloody comforting.

“You’re good, Sherlock. So good. So clever. Such a chameleon, even when you’re starkers. You’re extraordinary. Fantastic. Amazing. Is there anything you can’t do?”

Sherlock was drunk, drunker than he’d been on the purple smoke, drunker than he’d been when he’d been sucking John’s enormous cock. He shrugged drunkenly and murmured,

“Give you a proper blowjob?”

“Well, something tells me you’ll get another chance very soon. But you know what I thought when I saw you there on your knees, taking me like a pro?”

Sherlock hummed.

“Mine’s the luckiest prick in this fucking Sodom and Gomorrah.”

Sherlock whimpered at the loss of John’s hand, but then he heard the spitting and felt the calloused palm curl ‘round…

“Fuck,” he breathed as his body jerked.

Coming just like that, from barely being touched, well, it was adolescent, wasn’t it? And, apparently, amusing as John was chuckling softly as he pressed a handkerchief into Sherlock’s palm.

“You’ve just given me enough wank bank material to last the rest of my natural life, Sherlock. God bless you, you gorgeous tit.”

There was an affectionate peck to Sherlock’s temple, and John stepped away, reluctantly, or was that Sherlock’s imagination, releasing his grip.

“Glad to be of service,” said Sherlock weakly, but he was smiling in spite of himself.

And John was giggling like a bloody schoolgirl!

And Sherlock thought that even if the Red Death won that night, the case would’ve been well worth it.

John cleared his throat. “Well, whenever you’re ready, there are a couple of things I want you to see at the far end of the tunnel, Sherlock. They might be nothing, but you never know…”

“They might be everything,” said Sherlock, quickly setting himself to rights. He found his Golden Otter mask and brushed it clean.

“…but first we need to have one of those prior conversations.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Because that way, at the end of the tunnel, is the Green Room.”

“Oh, yes.”


	6. The Green Room. [Sthenolagnia (Strength/Muscles)]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wrestles. Sherlock confesses. Sthenolagnia (Strength/Muscles)
> 
> For the Kinktober Day 9: Sthenolagnia (Strength/Muscles)

Once again, Sherlock found himself, much like Poe’s raven, just outside a chamber door. But he wasn’t tapping at the door, he was playing the violin and waiting for John to emerge.

Like the whole of the ball, Sherlock stopped and listened as the clock chimed eight.

The stains that John had found in the tunnel had been old and unremarkable, but nearby Sherlock had found a bit of dark fabric caught on a nail that was suggestive. He’d left the find where it was but made a mental note to return later when he could properly collect it.

Per agreement, Sherlock had left the tunnel from the Purple Room first and alone. He’d done a quick survey of the new chamber and, discovering neither the Red Death nor anything else of interest, had gone to recover his musician’s costume and violin.

When Sherlock had returned to the Green Room, he’d found John positively enraptured. In fact, John appeared so delighted by the garden paradise, with its lush green foliage and bright tropical flowers and flowing river complete with animatronic fauna, that Sherlock momentarily regretted their plan. He wanted to be by John’s side, vicariously enjoying his wonder.

“That’s a real alligator!” John gasped, looking down into the water, which reflected the emerald light pouring in from the green stained-glass windows.

“Cleverly done,” remarked Sherlock, pausing his playing long enough to pass behind John on a tiny foot bridge, “but no more real than the piranhas or that toucan.”

John shook his head in amazement. Then he looked up and pointed. “What’s over there?”

“Wrestling,” said Sherlock. Then he strolled on.

It wasn’t long before John was oiled and stripped to the waist and bouncing expectantly just outside the ring.

For a short time, Sherlock had stationed himself in an inconspicuous spot that gave him a good, unobtrusive view of the wrestlers as well as other corners of the room.

Some guests were watching the spectacle, but many were already losing their inhibitions beneath the green fronds and colourful blooms. Sherlock spied, too, a stone path which extended to the far wall of the chamber. There a series of gentle waterfalls that were interesting not a few of the revelers.

Per the host’s edict, everyone was still wearing mask, but the wrestlers and the more enthusiastic bathers, Sherlock noticed, had exchanged their guests’ masks for tight-fitting caps which covered the upper half of the face and fastened at the back of the head.

Sherlock switched to a jaunty bit of fanfare when John stepped into the ring.

He was magnificent. Like a painting by Thomas Eakins.

His skin shone with sweat and oil. His muscles, every muscle, was straining. To perfection.

When John won the round, he grinned like a madman right at Sherlock.

The rounds were short and quick, and another commenced before John had much time to gloat.

This opponent was larger than the first, but John still attacked like an ancient warrior, fearless and sure.

For a moment, Sherlock forgot his role and just watched.

What would it feel like to touch those muscles? To have John’s nude body, thick, hard, hirsute, compact, wrapped around Sherlock’s lean form? To feel the strength of John everywhere? To, as here, engage in playful combat, to vie for dominance and, quite frankly, not care about victory?

Sherlock saw, in his mind, a bed, his bed, bare, stripped of linen and that linen scattered across the floor, joining clothes and shoes and life’s monotony of objects.

And two bodies in a tangled, sweaty, straining mess.

Given space and freedom, John would be a physical lover. Of course, he would. He would also be a strong lover, pushing, pulling, pressing Sherlock’s body into the desired positions.

Desired positions. Were there any positions that were not desired with John?

“OH!”

Startled from his reverie, Sherlock looked down and saw, not three steps from his feet, a cock jerking and spitting between a pair of gargantuan breasts.

It was not, in Sherlock’s opinion, an especially titillating image, but it served him well, shaking him out of fantasy and back to reality.

He put the violin under his chin and took up the bow once more. He decided to walk about, smiling when he heard a smattering of cheers from the direction of the ring.

Then there was a hush.

With a stab of fear, Sherlock turned.

But it was not the Red Death.

It was John’s third opponent, who was, quite frankly, a giant. He had at least five inches and five stone on John.

Sherlock immediately launched into John’s song.

Time to go, idiot!

The eighth chime rang out.

Then, just as the revelry was recommencing, the giant appeared at the entrance to the Green Room. He was in evening dress and wearing a golden lion’s mask.

He roared.

Then he strode past Sherlock and took up the iron poker that had been resting beside the brazier. With another fit of roaring, he bent the poker into an upside-down U. He tossed it to the floor and stormed off.      

“What a beast!”

Sherlock turned his head.

John was standing in the entrance, fully dressed, including hedgehog mask. His hair was damp, though, and Sherlock suspected he’d taken advantage of the waterfalls to rid himself of oil and sweat. He shot Sherlock a half-rueful, half-amused look and shrugged as if to say, ‘I tried.’

By way of reply, Sherlock carefully set his violin and bow in the case.

Then he took up the poker from where the Goliath had thrown it, faced John, and, with theatrical grunting and groaning, straightened the ironwork.

John giggled and clapped as, with feigned nonchalance, Sherlock returned the poker to its place.

Sherlock didn’t speak, he simply took up the violin and finished the last few bars of John’s song.

“That’s Mendelssohn, isn’t it?” asked John.

And what happened next, Sherlock would never understand. Why did he say it?

“No. It’s an original composition.”

Their eyes met. John’s mouth fell open.

“Really?!”

“I wrote it for my flatmate who used to have trouble sleeping.”

Sherlock looked away, but he felt John’s stare.

After a long silence, John said stiffly, “May I buy you a drink?”

“I’m working, but…”

Sherlock met John’s gaze and fell in love all over again with what he saw there.

“…I’ve a break in ten minutes. The Courtyard?”

“Yes, on the south side of the dance floor. Well, until then.”

“Yes.”

John gave a chivalrous, old-fashioned, tip-of-hat nod in Sherlock’s direction, and Sherlock watched as he strode down the corridor, turned a corner, and disappeared.


	7. The Dance Floor.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John have a drink and a dance. Feels & Kink discussion. No actual smut. Short chapter.
> 
> For Kinktober Day 10 - Hair-pulling & Waxplay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up I'm going take a few days off to recharge the smut-o-bellum and finish a pending project. But rest assured, I'll be back to these boys and it'll be finished by the end October. Boo!

“…I was enjoying myself until Goliath showed up.”

“You really didn’t stand a chance against him, John.”

“True. But as someone once cleverly pointed out, I invaded Afghanistan, didn’t I? Ridiculous endeavours hold great appeal for persons such as myself.”

They sat side-by-side, both in guest attire, at the bar adjacent to the dance floor. They nursed their drinks in companionable silence until John asked,

“May I venture a personal question, Sherlock?”

“Good Lord, John, you really think you need ask? Oh, all right. Yes, John you may ask me a personal question.”

“Do you fancy that?”

John pointed in the direction of a far corner where a few nude bodies were being adorned with drips and splatters of wax in a rainbow of colours.

“As a recipient, no. As an administrator, well, do you fancy it?”

“Christ, no. Even if I was into pain, which I’m not, I’m too hairy a devil to think that sounds like a good idea. Might feel all right going on but coming off—ouch!”

“Did you think I might be? Into pain or into that?”

“No, I wasn’t speculating on that end. I just thought, well, you’d look pretty done up like that. Your skin’s a rather nice palate for that kind of thing.”

John’s face warmed, and he buried it in his drink. He felt the heat of Sherlock’s gaze but didn’t look up.

Sherlock drained his glass. “How ‘bout a dance?”

That got John’s attention. “Yeah?”

“Yes. I love dancing. I’ve lived in hopes for the right case, and here it is.”

He held out an arm, gesturing toward the dance floor.

John nodded and eased off the stool.

* * *

As they swayed to the music, they only had eyes for each other, both letting the sea of ebbing inhibitions around them recede.

Being in such a romantic scene affected John much more than he liked to admit. There was a kind of raw, melodramatic urgency gnawing at him. He tried to stifle it, ignore it, reason himself out of it, but it grew stronger until finally, he put voice to it.

“Sherlock, this Red Death, he’s a serial killer, and we’re locked in here with him. And he knows we’re after him. If something happens…”

“Nothing’s going to happen, John. You said yourself I always get my man.”

“You don’t know that. You can’t promise that. I’ve been to war. For you and Queen and Country. Something could go wrong, and in case it does, I want you to know…”

“John.”

“…you are the best and wisest man whom I have ever known.”

“You are my fixed point in a changing age, John. The whetstone for my mind. A comrade, in truest sense of the word. I’d be lost without you. But don’t let’s talk like this now. Please. It really shall put me off my game.”

John’s face warmed again. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know why I’m blabbering like this…”

“Hair-pulling.”

“What?!”

“I like having my hair pulled.”                                                                                                                                                    

John stopped and stared for a moment, then he gave a nod. “Hard?”

“Hard enough.”

“Huh. Good to know, but I suppose it stands to reason. I’ve suspected for a while that you like to be petted, too, you big cat. So, a rough tug or two when I want to get your attention won’t go amiss?”

“Not at all.”

John smiled. Sherlock smiled.

Then a chime rang out.

Their expressions grew graver as each of the nine tones sounded.

“Sherlock…”

“Yes, we’re late. Orange Room. And John?”

“Yeah?”

“Shall we do this one together?”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Yeah, together.”


	8. The Orange Room. (Pet play. Rimming. Licking. Costume.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'pet park' proves a bit too much for John. Pet play. Rimming. Oral sex.
> 
> For Kinktober Day 12 - Licking. Pet play. Rimming/Analingus. Costume.

John hadn’t even realised that his prick was out and that Sherlock was sucking it until he felt claws on a tender place on his thigh.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured. He made to rub a hand down his face and massage his eyelids but then remembered the mask.

He’d been sitting with Sherlock curled in his lap on a padded bench in the part of the Orange Room called the ‘pet park,” watching a pair of ‘dogs.’

One was built along the lines of a bullmastiff and the other was more of a dachshund. They began by sniffing each other inquisitively and, apparently, liking what they smelt, moved on to licking. Licking faces at first, and then hindquarters.

John couldn’t look away. The two took turns burying their faces between each other’s buttocks, and the dachshund’s technique must’ve been something special because the look on the bullmastiff’s face was of pure rapture. He howled his pleasure as his thick, beefy cock hung, stiff and dripping, between his muscular legs.

At what provocation John didn’t know, but the bullmastiff suddenly spun ‘round and, without preamble, mounted the dachshund.

Then, it was the dachshund’s turn to howl.

The dachshund’s master, who was on a nearby bench and on the receiving end of his own mounting, called to his pup in inquiry and received a woof of pleasure by way of reply.

John kept his eyes on the canine pair. His trousers grew tight, and at some point, he must’ve opened them himself, for Sherlock’s pawed feet certainly wouldn’t have allowed for such dexterity.

The bullmastiff spent himself with a loud cry, which brought a host of other dogs to the scene, sniffing and licking the dachshund who woofed and whimpered as three more dogs mounted him. Then the dachshund lifted his hindquarters in the air as come trickled out of his much-used hole. This prompted a frenzy of licking. Three, four five tongues lapped at the stream, so many that John’s view was blocked by heads.

After a few moments, a different cry went up and at once, the dachshund’s master appeared with a rolled newspaper, swatting the throng away. When the crowd was dispersed, the master gently rolled the pup on his back and took the pup’s neglected prick in his mouth and began suckling him.

It was then that John felt the sharp pinch in his thigh and looked down to find his own prick in Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock was stretched out along the padded bench, wearing, in addition to the paws, a new mask with triangle ears and whiskers, a pair of black knickers, and a fluffy tail.

John ran a caressing hand up and down Sherlock’s back, as far as he could reach. He scratched behind Sherlock’s ears and felt the vibration of Sherlock’s purr around his cock.

John heard a soft woof and looked over just in time to see the dachshund’s master licking his pup clean.

John came at once, his prick enveloped in Sherlock’s mouth.

As Sherlock pulled off, their eyes met.

“Good girl. So good,” whispered John, brushing Sherlock’s cheek. “Thank you.” He bent forward to nuzzle the side of Sherlock’s head. “So good, so good, my beautiful girl.”

Sherlock purred. John petted.

John leaned to the right, reaching out to caress more of Sherlock, and his eyes followed his hand to Sherlock’s buttocks.

He frowned, realising the cat tail wasn’t attached to the knickers. There was a hole in the black silk.

Then the penny dropped.

Christ, the tail was a plug! It was anchored inside Sherlock.

John blinked, then fussed about with his pants and trousers, setting himself to rights and thinking about Sherlock’s tail.

Was it part of the costume offered by the party organisers?

John looked about the park, studying the other pets.

“MEOW!”

The noise Sherlock made might have been a meow, but it might have been ‘my own.’

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes and made the noise again.

Definitely a disguised ‘my own.’

Christ.

After the surprise wore off, John was hit by two waves of emotion. First, he was jealous. Jealous of whomever Sherlock had played kitten with before. And then he was thoroughly ashamed of himself, ashamed of his jealousy. Of course, Sherlock had had a sex life before he met John, and of course, he would indulge in play with his partner or partners. And it was bloody small-minded of John ‘Three Continents’ Watson to think otherwise.

If the Green Room had been a veritable Eden, the Orange Room was a Sahara. It was lighted and furnished in shades of orange, with rock sculptures and masks in bronze and burnt sienna featuring prominently. A stuffed bird of prey with ginger feathers craned its head towards John and stared at him, accusingly, or so it seemed to John.

Shame on you, squawked the bird.

Suddenly, the chamber didn’t seem like a desert. It seemed like an empty planet. And John, the alien trapped there.

He shook his head and winced openly.

The case, the fucking case, lives at stake! Why were he and Sherlock playing naughty dress-up when there were lives at stake! There was a fucking serial killer somewhere…

“Meow?”

John eased Sherlock off his lap and muttered, “I’ve got to get out here. I’m sorry. So sorry.”

“Meow?”

John hurried toward the door without looking back.

And collided with a waiter.

“Sorry, sorry,” said John, bending to pick up the tray and the empty glasses.

“Excuse me? Is there a doctor? My friend really needs some help.”

A guest in an octopus mask was looking at the waiter.

“I’m a doctor,” interjected John.

“Oh, thank God! Can you…?”

“Sure.”

“This way. Quickly, please.”

“John?”

John turned, and it showed how far the night had progressed that a nearly nude man dressed as a cat warranted nary a stare nor comment from anyone.

“Somebody needs help,” said John. “I’ll meet you on the balcony in a bit, yeah?”

“Okay.” Sherlock disappeared back into the Orange Room.

John followed the octopus upstairs.

“We put him in here. It was quieter.”

The octopus held the door open. John rushed in.

WHAM!

The door slammed behind John.

It was dark, pitch dark.

John heard loud breathing. Was it his own? Or someone else’s?

Then the clock began to chime ten.

John ran back toward the door.

It was locked.

“Hello?” he cried, but the sound of the clock drowned everything. John could hardly hear his own screams.

“Help!”

“HELP!”

He tried to doorknob. He kicked the door.

Finally, the tenth tone rang out. John took a deep breath, preparatory to a massive shout, but then he turned his head.

And saw two bright yellow eyes staring at him.

And heard a grunt that he wasn’t certain was human.


	9. The Trap.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An rescue, a stroll, a rush, a confession, a plan. No smut. Just feels.

Of ways to go, John thought, this was an interesting one: being strangled to death in the dark without much clue as to what was going on.

Fingers tightened ‘round John’s neck. The thing that was attached to the arm that was attached to the fingers was ten-ton mass of hair-covered, foul-smelling muscle. It had thrown him like a rag doll. Then it had picked him up like a rag doll, that is, by the neck.

John wasn’t certain what it was, but he knew what it wasn’t.

This wasn’t the Red Death.

It was The Big Squeeze.

John laughed silently at his own unfunny joke and thought _that_ was not a bad way to go when the door banged open and there was a light and the voice John had been praying to hear.

“JOHN!”

Sherlock wasn’t alone.

He had arrived with reinforcements in the form of a flock of birds, which were swarming ‘round and pecking at the creature.

There were angry noises, but the creature soon found it could not kill John and fight off the avian assault simultaneously, so it threw John aside.

And Sherlock gathered John up.

“That was very foolish, John.”

“Yup,” John croaked, rubbing his neck. “What in the hell is it?”

“Those? Those are ravens. Not real birds, of course. Drones.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “Those are drones?”

The robotic corvids were forcing the creature to retreat into an enormous iron-barred cage.

“Then what had me? Jesus Christ! It’s a gorilla!”

Sherlock laid John gently on the floor and sprang towards the cage, slamming the door closed and locking it.

“Not a gorilla, John. Remember the Edgar Allan Poe story, Dupin’s most famous case, ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’?”

“An orangutan! I’m lucky it didn’t have a razor! Or stuff me head-first up a chimney.”

“Very lucky.”

“But is it a robot? Doesn’t smell like one.”

“No, but it should be. Someone substituted a real ape for the mechanical one.”

“The guest with the octopus mask?”

“He may or may not be someone the Red Death used to lure you here.” Sherlock helped John to his feet. “I suppose the Red Death thinks it’s funny: murder by orangutan.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll give The Big Squeeze a pass, thanks all the same. I need a walk,” said John.

“We can pass by the infirmary and get something for your throat.”

“There’s an infirmary?”

“It’s a closed-site, six-hour, thousand-person orgy, John. Yes, there’s an infirmary. And probably a queue by now.”

* * *

“My throat feels much better. I suppose this is sort of a promenade deck.”

“Yes, there’s the smoking balcony over there.”

John winced at the prospect. “Give it a miss?”

“Absolutely.”

For a few minutes, they walked side-by-side in silence. Then John asked,

“Who is this bastard, Sherlock, the Red Death?”

“I don’t know, but…”

“But?”

“I think he knows me.”

“A fan?”

“Perhaps. Or something more intimate.”

“Oh, hell, you don’t think it’s Mycroft, do you?”

“No, but…”

“But?”

“But Mycroft may know more than he’s told either of us.”

“May? Isn’t that true all the time?”

Sherlock smiled ruefully. Then his expression changed.

“What was it, John, that bothered you in the Orange Room?”

“You mean you can’t deduce?”

“Bricks and clay. You were upset by the costume.”

“I was upset at myself for being a bit of jealous tit. Your past is not my business unless you want it to be.”

“Very true. But?”

“But the thought of you being like that with someone else bothers me and when you said the tail was your own…”

“John, about the tail…”

“You don’t have to…”

“I don’t have to tell you, but I want you to tell you that I bought the tail yesterday when Mycroft made me aware of all that might be on offer here. I tried it on last night. I’ve not had a relationship where that sort of,” Sherlock’s mouth twitched, “creativity was possible, but I do understand your original discomfort.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“For God’s sake, John ‘Three Continents’ Watson, you don’t think I’m a bit of a jealous tit, too? I’m not so arrogant as to think that superior theoretical knowledge will completely absolve a dearth of practical experience.”

John stopped and stared.

“You’re worried I won’t think you’re a good lover?”

“I want to be the very best you’ve ever had.” Sherlock met his gaze, then added in a haughty tone. “Superior.”

John grinned and nodded, then turned his head and nodded again, this time towards the balcony.

“Let’s do that.”

Sherlock almost laughed. “All right. Me first.”

* * *

“WHEEE!” cried John as he whizzed through the air, clinging to the straps of the zipline. He looked down through dangling legs at the revelers in the courtyard, then he looked at Sherlock who was waiting on the other side.

“Ooof!”

John slammed into Sherlock, who grabbed him around the waist.

“Gotcha.”

John unhooked himself from the harness, but Sherlock did not let go.

John held Sherlock’s face in his hands and, despite the awkwardness of the masks, brought his lips slowly, softly, tenderly, to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock stepped backwards but did not take his lips from John’s.

They kept kissing until John finally pulled back to breathe and whisper,

“You’re the very best I’ve ever had, and I adore you with everything I am and everything I have.”

Sherlock stared, then blinked without say anything. He just set John’s feet on the ground and nodded.

“John, I’m not very good with…”

“It’s all right.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand.

“But I do, John,” Sherlock added hastily. “I do. All of it.”

“When this case’s over, we’ll figure it out, yeah?”

“Yes. A holiday?”

John felt a lightness in his chest. “Yeah? Really?”

“I’ve never had one, but a lot of people seem to fancy them.”

“I’d love to go on holiday with you, Sherlock.”

“That’s settled then. Solve the case. Book something. And figure it all out.”

“Don’t forget to pack your tail.”

Sherlock blushed. “First things first. The White Room?”

“The White Room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be back to our regularly scheduled smutty programme next chapter.


	10. The White Room. (Shibari)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John watches some intriguing shibari. 
> 
> For Kinktober 2018 Day 23 - Shibari - Size Difference - Master/Slave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got distracted and lost momentum but we're back!

“You’re right, John, about the size difference.”

“What?! I didn’t say anything.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t think it.”

At the entrance to The White Room, Sherlock and John had been offered, and had accepted, new masks, which were form-fitting and had special eye protection.

The White Room dazzled.

There were white curtains, white carpets, white walls, bouquets of white lilies and white swans. The last, John noted with relief, were neither real nor robots, but rather old-fashioned specimens preserved by taxidermy.

“There’s nothing wrong with the size of either of us, Sherlock,” said John as they made there way through the room.

“I’m not talking about phallic size. I’m talking about stature. You paid some attention to the pair over there who were simultaneously fellating each other, then your expression changed when you concluded that such an act would be outside the realm of physical possibilities between ourselves. And, I am forced to admit, you’re correct in your estimation. Any such act would require me to bend or you to stretch into supremely uncomfortable positions, and such discomfort would, in all probability, be greater than the pleasure that the act is intended to provide. But, if we were to take turns in quick succession…”

John nodded. “Worth an experiment.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Don’t think I won’t hold you to it.”

John looked about. “I don’t see how the Red Death could hide here, Sherlock. It’s so bright.”

“He’s a resourceful creature. He might find a way.” Sherlock nodded to a far corner. “Master and slave, John?”

“No. You?”

“No. Want to make a snowman or roleplay Anna and Elsa?

“Not particularly.”

“I’ll give the back section a glance and then meet you towards the entrance.”

“Sounds good.”

* * *

“Ropes, John?”

John knew that Sherlock would catch him staring and suspected he might jump to the wrong conclusion.

“No, not really. Well, I don’t know.”

John had tucked himself beside a table with a heavy vase of lilies. When Sherlock found him, he was nursing a drink and feigning disinterest in his surroundings.

But, in truth, John was fascinated by a pair, one being bound and the other doing the binding. The one being tied up had a white hood that covered his entire head, but his bonds were black, a stark contrast to his skin, indeed, to the whole of the room. The one doing the tying wore the mask of an arctic fox with dark grey eyes and long eyelashes.

“It’s beautiful,” said John. “Physically, the way the ropes outline the skin, the way they contain the body and emotionally, how much trust the one has for the other and how the other honours that trust. The one’s all trussed up like a Christmas goose and now the other one’s wanking him off. God, that’s hot. Do you fancy it at all, Sherlock?”

“I honestly don’t know. Worth an experiment, though, wouldn’t you say?”

“Definitely.”

“Do you like his prick, John?”

“Yeah, but I like yours better.” John turned his head. “I can’t see your eyes,” he muttered frustratedly.

“What is it, John?”

“Those two. The way they touch it’s so intimate, so loving, and yet so open. They don’t care who sees them at all.”

“I suppose even the stiffest upper lips can succumb to the temptation of a masked ball.”

“Yeah, well, they aren’t alone. Not here, but,” John’s voice grew strained, “near, out in the corridor even…”

“Anything. Wherever.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

* * *

Sherlock didn’t care. The world could die of the Red Death, and he wouldn’t care.

John Watson was on his knees with his tongue in Sherlock’s arse.

Eating him out to an audience, in fact. At least one guest had tried to join them, but John had rebuffed the intrusion in no uncertain terms.

No one else had tried.

John had bitten Sherlock’s buttocks, kneaded them like lumps of dough, then spread them and buried his face between them.

The mask scratched, but Sherlock didn’t care.

Sherlock’s forehead was pressed to his forearm, which was curled against the wall; he brought his other hand to his mouth and spit on the palm.

“Let me,” said John.

“I don’t…”

Sherlock didn’t want to turn to face anyone but John, not even with the mask.

Suddenly, the performer, the actor, the master of disguise didn’t want anyone to see him.

But then there were hands on Sherlock's hips, guiding him backwards, and John, beautiful, beautiful, John, slid himself between Sherlock and the wall.

John took Sherlock’s hand and twined their fingers together. Sherlock had no words, but he squeezed John’s hand, hoping he would understand.

Then Sherlock bent his head and watched John suck him off.

There might have been guests behind Sherlock aroused by the scene. They might have voiced their appreciation and arousal. They might have been engaged in various acts with each other as a result of that arousal and his and John’s spectacle.

Sherlock didn’t care.

John ran his tongue up the length of Sherlock’s shaft. He teased Sherlock’s leaking prickhead, then kissed it daintily.

He looked up and met Sherlock’s gaze and smiled.

Sherlock returned the smile and caressed John’s cheek. He puckered his lips in a sweet air kiss, and John’s smile spread and warmed to a grin.

Then John swallowed Sherlock’s prick anew and sucked it ‘til Sherlock came.

There was a smattering of applause, and then the onlookers dispersed.

As Sherlock helped John to his feet, he wasn’t thinking of the crowd. He wasn’t even thinking of John.

He was thinking of the bound man in The White Room.

He was thinking of the scar on the bond man’s left ankle. It was a teeth-mark that had, quite naturally and especially in the white light, gone unobserved by one and all.

Except the one who’d made it, of course.

A five-year-old playing dinosaurs with his thirteen-year-old brother and wanting to be the most ferocious T-rex known.

Well, thought Sherlock, even the stiffest upper lips can succumb to the temptation of a masked ball, and the Detective Inspector’s presence might be helpful when the time came for an arrest.

“What are you thinking of, Sherlock?”

“You,” Sherlock lied.

John laughed. “That good, eh?”

“Better.”

“I need the loo. Then a drink?”

“Yes.”


	11. The Bar.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pause, a drink, a conversation, and a plan. Short chapter. For Kinktober 2018: Day 26 - Smiles/Laughter.

“Toys?” asked Sherlock.

“No. You?”

“No.”

Sherlock and John were seated on high stools with two glasses of tonic water resting on the bar between them. Their seats were close together, and their bodies turned toward each other and toward the courtyard. One of John’s thighs was slotted between two of Sherlock’s.

“Role-play?” asked John. “I mean, apart from the cat business.”

Sherlock shook his head and took a sip of water.

John nodded, his eyes flitted from Sherlock to the uninhibited crowd and observed,

“I think we’re the soberest people in this whole party, Sherlock.”

“You may be right, John.” Three guests, nude save for masks, raced past the bar. “We are certainly wearing the most clothes.”

John laughed. Sherlock laughed.

“I quite like making you laugh, John.”

“I quite like making you smile, Sherlock, a real smile, not one of your put-on ones.”

After these confessions, they retreated to their cups, drinking in silence for a time.

“Will we catch this bastard, Sherlock?”

“Yes,” replied Sherlock, quickly and confidently.

John continued, “Do you think it’s odd that it took, well, being at an orgy to get us to…?”

“I stopped worrying long ago about ‘odd,’ John. Irregular? Perhaps. But given how we met and everything that’s happened since then…”

“Yeah, okay, you’ve got a point.”

“But to answer your original question, the truth is I don’t know. Would our understanding have developed regardless of this case and this setting? I can only say for certain that I’m very glad that it did.”

“Me, too. Cheers.”

They clinked glasses, then another silence descended.

Soon Sherlock’s hand was on John’s thigh, rubbing.

“I love your hands, Sherlock.”

“I know. And cats’ tails and laughter notwithstanding, I think my premier kink is making you hard, John.”

John snorted. “Lucky me.” He placed his palms on Sherlock’s thighs and gentle spread Sherlock’s legs wider, nudging the centre with his knee.

“Shall I fall to my knees right here, Sherlock? That’s what I’d like to do. My mouth’s watering for it.”

Sherlock’s eyes scanned the courtyard, his head tilted in consideration.

“Don’t think the offer isn’t tempting, but It’s only half ten, John, and there’s one chamber we haven’t explored.”

“The Violet Room?”

“Yes. I propose that, should we find it safe, we indulge ourselves there until the hour. Then I think we should return our attentions to the case.”

“Sounds like a plan.”


	12. The Violet Room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies that I lost momentum on this story (twice!). This is the last smut chapter. It was to be for the Kinktober day for Exhibitionism/Voyeurism. The final chapter will be the end of the ball (a very Scooby Doo ending: 'I would've gotten away with it if it weren't for those rotten ****' with lots of implausibilities). 
> 
> Nevertheless, I appreciate all the support. Hope you've enjoyed the ride.

“Bats,” said John.

“Thank you for stating the obvious,” said Sherlock.

“It looks like a cave,” said John.

“Twice,” added Sherlock.

The Violet Room was as dark as the White Room had been bright. A few hurricane lamps provided the only illumination apart from that spilling in through the violet-paned windows. The ceiling was low and hung with scores of bats at rest.

John wondered aloud if they were taxidermy specimens or mechanical, and Sherlock retorted that upon casual inspection, they appeared to be a mix of both.

In the corners, if a cave can be said to have corners, atop pillars were crouching bat-winged gargoyles who looked down upon the revelers with sinister glee. The pillars were on either side of great archways, three in number, and Sherlock and John explored each in turn.

The first two held no appeal for either Sherlock or John, but the third interested them both, albeit for separate reasons.

They spoke at once.

“There’s a passage…”

“I think that’s…”

“This first,” said Sherlock, and he took John firmly by the hand and led him through an almost imperceptible gap in the cavern walls.

“Stairs,” whispered John.

“Anytime you want to bin the running commentary, John.”

It was more snappish than Sherlock would’ve liked, but he was on edge: he wanted to solve the case, he wanted to fuck his flatmate, and he really wanted to do both apart from a certain someone he’d just spotted.

“Oh, you wouldn’t be complaining if I was narrating the story of my sucking my flatmate’s gorgeous prick, now wouldn’t you, Sherlock?”

In John’s voice, Sherlock heard his own mix of peevishness and anticipation. He huffed in mock afront, but he was secretly pleased. He liked it when John sparred, much better than taking offense.

“Touché, John,” he said in his most conciliatory tone. “Now, up.”

The staircase was thin and winding and only wide enough for single-file climbing. They met no one on their ascent.

“Let’s see where we are,” said Sherlock, pulling back a dark violet curtain.

“Oh,” said John as the light hit them. “It’s a balcony.”

It had the same ironwork railings as the other balconies but was much smaller and empty of guests.

“Zipline in the distance,” said John. “Smokers’ balcony over there. The balcony where Prince Prospero gave the opening address right across on the other side of the courtyard.”

“Excellent place for surveillance,” said Sherlock. “So, the mystery of the mysterious staircase is solved. What were you going to say down there?”

“Oh, just that those two we saw in the White Room, they’re here, too. You know, the one that was being tied up and the one doing the tying.”

“You recognised them?”

“Yeah, I think it’s them. Hard to tell in the dark, of course. But I recognise the one’s mask: a silver fox.”

“You like them?”

“There’s something about them that’s more, I don’t know, interesting than most of the people we’ve seen so far, so, yeah, I suppose I like watching them.”

“You want to go back down?”

“You want to stay here?”

Sherlock scanned the balconies and then the courtyard below, then said with some reluctance,

“We can always return.”

* * *

They were at the farthest fringe of a small group of spectators.

Sherlock was looking at John. John was looking elsewhere.

Sherlock was facing the violet cave wall, his back to the scene that interested John so, his left shoulder touching John’s right. He leaned in until his lips were almost brushing John’s earlobe.

“What is it you like about them, John? Physique, technique, stamina?”

“Well, I mean, they obviously like being looked at or they wouldn’t be having sex in front of an audience at an orgy, no?” said John.

“Yes, they strike me as garden variety exhibitionists,” said Sherlock dismissively.

“Now you see that’s where I think you’re dead wrong.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I think they’re just so into each other and so turned on by each other and everything that’s going on that they just don’t care who sees them. And that’s, well, not garden variety anything, is it?”

“Perhaps.”

Sherlock was, in that moment, struck by a shockingly base urge.

He was greedy.

Greedy and selfish and petty.

He wanted John’s attention on himself. Not _them_.

He curled a hand around John’s waist and schooled his voice into its lowest and, he hoped, most seductive register.

“You think you mightn’t inspire such recklessness, John?”

John turned his head, his gaze wide, his eyebrows raised, his mouth half-open in surprise, then his expression narrowed to one of intrigue. One corner of his mouth curled. Even in the dim light, Sherlock noted, with swelling pride and prick, the slight increase in respiration and slight dilation of pupils. He found John’s wrist, touched John’s pulse, just to be certain.

“Oh?” was all John could think to say. And Sherlock was pleased he’d rendered John speechless.

And then with a simple press of his arm, Sherlock lead John away, towards the portion of the wall that hid the gap.

“The hour is late to be audience, John. If anything, we should be principals in our own drama.”

And then Sherlock was kissing John, pressing him against the wall, silently unburdening heart and soul.

He was telling John how much he loved him, wanted him, cherished him. How much he admired his strength, his loyalty, his heart, his humour, his bravery.

“Christ. You know how to take a bloke’s breath away, don’t you?” said John when the kiss finally broke.

“In more ways than one.”

John giggled. He grasped Sherlock’s head in gentle hands and planted a quick, hard kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

“Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”

Sherlock grinned. It felt just as good as the first time.

“Just as good as the first time?” said John. Then he laughed. “I’ll never be a mind reader, but I am getting better at reading you.”

And then they were kissing anew.

And then John’s arms were around Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock’s arms were around John’s waist and it was a proper snog.

And with every brush of lips and every touch of fingertips, Sherlock’s impatience grew—and his concern about the case diminished.

And he wasn’t alone in his sentiment.

“I want to fuck,” growled John as his lower half made an almost comical attempt to rut against Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock gripped John’s hips and stilled him, then looked about.

“Up?” moaned John.

“Brilliant,” said Sherlock. “And John…”

Sherlock took John’s hand and brought it to his own pocket and its bulging contents.

“Christ, when’d you get those?”

“At the bar.”

“Before or after I said I wanted to be down on my knees for you?”

“After.”

“You’re a wicked sod. And easily led astray.”

“I believe the phrase is takes one to bugger one.”

John giggled again.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. “If we hurry…”

“Are you certain? Up there? In front of everybody?”

“If you are.”

“Hell, yeah.”

* * *

John was on his knees, his soles to the railing, as he sucked Sherlock’s prick. His hands were wrapped ‘round Sherlock’s arse and his slicked finger was teasing Sherlock’s rim.

As John took more of Sherlock in his mouth, he sank his digit into Sherlock’s hole.

Sherlock watched the crowd, then he watched John. He petted John’s head and pushed back gently urging him deeper.

John pulled off. “Like that, do you?” he teased.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed now, and he was rocking back on his heels as John inserted a second finger.

“It could be like this, Sherlock, every morning, waking up with a suck and bugger.”

“Fuck in the shower?”

“Bend you over the basin?”

“Kitchen table, too. Show me, John.”

“Shoot your load down my throat first.”

Sherlock obliged.

* * *

And then Sherlock was leaning over the railing and a prophylactic-sheathed cock was breeching him.

“Beautiful arse,” said John. “Perfect for sodding. Oh, wait, should I bin the commentary?”

“Don’t you dare!”

“So tight, so sweet and snug. They’re watching you, Sherlock, and wanking to it, fucking to it, coming to it: you, getting a nice, thick cock up your gorgeous arse.”

Sherlock’s shirt tails were being pushed up and hands were on his lower back and buttocks.

Then John began to thrust in earnest.

“You feel like a virgin, Sherlock, and take me like a whore.”

“I’m both and neither,” babbled Sherlock. “Your virgin, your whore, just yours, John. And I don’t give a fuck what’s going on anywhere but here: you, taking me the way we both want.”

John gave a sharp grunt and slammed into Sherlock one final time.

Sherlock reached a hand back. John grasped it. And they breathed together.

There was so much Sherlock wanted to say, but all he did say was,

“John.”

“I know, Sherlock.”

* * *

They set themselves to right, and John was just about to ask what next when the world went black.

A spotlight shone on the balcony across the courtyard.

The figure of Prince Prospero stood in his black robe and Plague Doctor mask; he raised his arms, revealing a pair of black-gloved hands.

_“HONOURED GUESTS, THE FINAL HOUR IS UPON YOU!”_

Sherlock gripped John’s hand so tight that John bit his own tongue in surprise. He turned his head just in time to see Sherlock crumple to the ground.

John followed, squatting beside Sherlock and throwing his arms around his trembling form.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes were pinched shut. His face was contorted in agony. He spoke through clenched teeth.

“It’ssss…”

_“ENJOY ALL THE MASQUERADE HAS TO OFFER!”_

Just then, the violet curtain moved. John feared the worst: that the Red Death had found them.

But it wasn’t the Red Death, it was two guests.

John recognised them: they were the pair that he had been so keen to watch downstairs and in the White Room. And now that he saw them in plain light—and clothed—he recognised them even more.

“Jesus Christ! Greg! Mycroft!”

“Sherlock?” Greg fell beside John. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know. He gets this way when…”

_“REVEL IN EACH MOMENT OF PLEASURE AS IF IT WERE YOUR LAST!”_

“That’s not Prince Prospero,” said Mycroft.

“How do you know?” asked John.

Mycroft smiled grimly. “Because _I’m_ Prince Prospero.”


	13. The End.

John’s hands were resting on the top of his head, just to make certain it was still on his shoulders.

“You?!”

He looked from Mycroft to Greg. His own astonishment was reflected in Greg’s expression.

Christ, Mycroft hadn’t told him.

That was worse than a Bit Not Good.

That was Bad.

_“HURRAH!”_

John turned his head.

The dark figure’s arms were raised in the pose of triumphant dictators everywhere in every time.

The crowd cheered. Then the spotlight went dark.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” said John, looking down at Sherlock, who raised his head weakly and nodded.

The clock began to chime.

The whole of the party stilled.

Except for John.

“Fuck the clock. And we’ll sort all of this,” he waved a confused hand at Mycroft, “Prince Prospero business later. Stay here, Sherlock. I’m going to get that bastard once and for all.”

Everyone responded at once.

“John, no!”

But John ignored them and pushed through the curtain.

“John!”

John could barely hear Greg over the chime. He screamed, not caring if Greg heard or not.

“There’s no time, Greg! The clock’s ticking! We’ve an hour, and someone’s going to die!”

Between the chimes, John caught Greg’s reply.

“But who’s ‘him,’ John?!”

John stopped and turned. “The Red Death, of course!”

“But he’s been captured!”

“What? No!”

They stared at each other as the eleventh chime sounded.

“That Prince,” John pointed toward the balcony, “or whoever he was, whoever was addressing the crowd just now, is him. That’s the Red Death. Sherlock’s got that thing, you know, about him. He has some sort of reaction whenever the Red Death is near.”

Greg frowned. “But Mycroft told me that…”

They were on the stairs, with John at the lowest point, then Greg, then Mycroft, and finally Sherlock at the top, clinging the curtain.

Mycroft said, “Gregory, I’m sorry. A suspect was in police custody just before the masquerade commenced, but…”

“BUT WHAT?” roared Greg as he turned on Mycroft. “What kind of game are you playing? The only reason I agreed to attend this was because I thought the case was over. If the real killer is still on the loose, I should be at my job, not…” He snorted and shook his head. “Jesus Christ, Gregson said he was handling it…”

“The killer’s here, Greg,” said John. “That’s him! But, okay, let’s take a moment, why not? What I really can’t fathom is why you decided to host this thing, Mycroft! Just a whim? Orgy? Thousand people? In a castle? Nothing better to do?”

“There were multiple objectives,” said Mycroft with an evasive glance towards the ground.

A wild thought struck John, and his hands went to the top of his head again. “Jesus Christ, did you do it for Greg?! To get into his pants?! I mean, really? I mean, what? I mean, hasn’t anyone in your family ever heard of a conversation?! Or even a goddamn unsolicited dick pic?! There are better ways, Mycroft!”

John looked at Greg whose hand was covering his own face. Then the hand dropped, and the look of white-hot rage, which was directed at Mycroft, made John shiver.

John’s tone quickly changed and became conversational to the point of apologetic. “Or you know, maybe, you two were, uh,” he stammered, “you know, before now, I mean, before tonight, I mean, I never noticed and if Sherlock noticed anything, he never said anything to me but, you know, I kind of makes sense going by how you, uh, were together down there and in the White Room, I mean, quite hot and all, like you were quite experienced with each other, I mean, bodies, okay, I’ll just…”

Greg glared at John.

John shut up. And it crossed his mind that it might be a good idea to shut up _forever_.

Mycroft cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his tone was icy. “Financing was, in part, from the private sector. I had professional as well as personal reasons for my actions. It was a trap, of course. And it worked. The Red Death is here—and now, apparently, impersonating me!”

“But you risked a thousand innocent lives!” protested Greg. “And where is the police presence?”

“There is security, of course, but…” Mycroft gave Greg a subtle look.

Then Greg’s hands were on his head. “Me?! I’m it! A single cop you’ve kept completely in the dark?!”

“I agreed with Sherlock that what was needed was a lure that would prove irresistible to the killer,” said Mycroft. “The killer obsessed with Edgar Allan Poe. He would not miss the chance to commit a murder at an event like the one in described in Poe’s ‘The Masque of the Red Death.’ I know the story very well. So does Sherlock. I used to read Poe’s stories to him when he was a child. They were among his favourites—”

“Of course, they were,” said John and Greg with weary groans.

“Wait,” said John, looking behind Mycroft. “Speaking of Sherlock, where is he?”

Sherlock was no longer at the top of the stairs.

And neither was the curtain.

* * *

Mycroft turned, and John and Greg raced after him.

The three ran onto the balcony and flew to the railing where a piece of curtain was tied.

And looked down to see Sherlock shimmying along a length of curtain to the floor below.

“What in the hell is he doing?” asked John. Then he leaned forward and lifted his leg.

“Don’t even think about climbing down after him, John,” said Lestrade. “Save yourself a broken leg. We’ll find him downstairs.”

“There’s no hurry,” said Mycroft. “He’ll probably try to cause a distraction first to divert suspicion, but we know where he’s headed.”

“Where?” John and Greg asked.

“The westernmost chamber. The Black Room.”

“Black Room?!” John and Greg echoed.

“In Poe’s story, Prince Prospero and the Red Death have their final confrontation in the Black Room,” explained Mycroft.

“You know who the Red Death is, don’t you?” said John. “Sherlock said he thought that the killer knew him. If he knows Sherlock, he probably knows you, too.”

Greg’s expression was livid. “I swear, Mycroft, if you’ve been withholding critical information from the police—"

“I may know who he was. Who he is now, I haven’t a clue. But the important part is catching him.”

“And using a thousand innocent people as bait?!” cried Greg.

John shook his head, then he spoke through clenched teeth. “He’s not using a thousand people as bait, Greg. He’s only using one: Sherlock. This Red Death has something against Sherlock. He’s coming for Sherlock.”

Mycroft looked away. “I think we should proceed to the Black Room…”

John huffed and muttered under his breath, “God, I wish I had…”

“…armed, no?” finished Mycroft, then added. “There is a small cache of weapons we can use.”

“First sensible thing you’ve said yet, Mycroft,” said John and he headed towards the stairs.

“Gregory…”

“Don’t.”

* * *

“What kind of distraction do you think Sherlock’s going to stage?” asked Greg.

“A ridiculous one,” said John. “If I were a betting man,” he smiled, “I’d say he’s going to let loose a live orangutan.”

“A what?!” cried Greg.

Mycroft protested, “John, the animal is a mechanised reproduction…”

“Oh, ho! Do I finally know something that the great Mycroft Holmes doesn’t know? Look at this, Kinky McSphincter,” John unbuttoned his collar, “that’s not me getting my jollies by Sherlock choking me. That’s a goddamn murder-monkey putting a stranglehold on me!”

Mycroft paled.

John continued, “If Sherlock and his flock of robotic crows—”

“They’re ravens, John,” interjected Mycroft.

“What?!” cried Greg. “Did I miss the menagerie room?!”

“—hadn’t show up…oh, God, that’s what he’s going to do. He’s going to set the crows on everyone.”

And as if on cue, the screaming commenced.

* * *

“Christ, it’s like a Hitchcock film!” cried Greg. “Give me your mobile, Mycroft, and don’t tell me you don’t have one. I’m calling for back-up, and if you try to stop me, I’m going to shoot you with the gun you just gave me.”

“Very well. We’ve only a few minutes until midnight. Here. Now, this way.”

Mycroft led them down a corridor past the Violet Room.

“Mycroft, there’s no—”

But there was.

At a distance, it seemed the corridor was a dead end. It was not until they reached the end that it was obvious that the walls were illusions created by light and shadow and mirrors.

They turned sharply to the left and continued down a narrow hall.

The hall widened.

And then there was a brazier before large panes of red-stained glass. Black curtains were pulled back and tied on either side of the threshold.

“It’s like they knew were coming,” said John. “I’ll go first.”

“ _I’ll_ go first, soldier,” said Greg.

“If Sherlock—”

“Shut up, John. Something’s got to be by the fucking book in this madhouse.”

John shut up, but with weapon drawn, he followed closely behind Greg.

Black velvet tapestries hung on all over the ceiling and down the walls to carpet of the same texture and hue, but with the red light cast through the stained glass, the whole of the chamber appeared to drip blood.

There were two sofas, a few armchairs and small tables, and a large folding screen, but the centerpiece of the room was a gigantic clock of ebony that stood by the western wall.

The room appeared to be empty.

“It’s almost midnight,” observed Greg.

John looked behind. “Where’s Mycroft?”

“I’m asking myself the same question, Captain,” said a deep voice. A figure appeared from behind the screen. It was shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave, and its mask was that of a corpse besprinkled with a scarlet horror.

Greg trained his gun on the figure. “Raise your hands. Nice and easy.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Detective Inspector.” With one hand, the figure shifted the fabric covering its chest. Four large cylinders were strapped to a harness. “Unless you’d like to be known as the DI who exposed one thousand people to the plague. One shot and all my pet germs will run free.”

“I’ll take my chances,” said Greg.

“Oh, well, then there’s this.” The figure drew from behind his back a revolver and pointed the weapon towards a body caught in a net hanging from the ceiling.

“Sherlock!” called John, but there was no response.

A voice boomed from the threshold.

_“Who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery?”_

The figure cackled. “Oh, finally!”

Mycroft appeared in full Prince Prospero regalia with a dagger drawn over his head.

_“Seize him and unmask him -- that we may know whom we have to hang, at sunrise, from the battlements!”_

“Yes! Yes!” cried the figure with ghoulish glee. “You set a trap for me, Mycroft Holmes, using precious Sherlock as bait and what do I do? Set a trap for you with the same! Oh, ho!” Then, he pointed the gun directly at Mycroft. “ _I come like a thief in the night!_ "

“Show yourself, coward,” bellowed Mycroft.

The figure removed its mask and began to giggle maniacally.

“Peppa’s Portly Uncle!” cried John. “The fat toff from the smokers’ balcony! Wait, that can’t be right…”

Mycroft huffed. “If you would be so kind, Doctor Watson…”

“What?” asked John.

“Tear off his face.”

“What?!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” growled Greg, and he marched to the figure and ripped.

The head peeled off like rubber.

“Are you sorry, Mycroft Holmes, that you filled my wee head with such horrid tales?”

“By the age of five, your head was already filled with the grotesque, Victor. That’s why you were locked up after you killed Sherlock’s dog.”

He snorted. “Redbeard. Well, I’ve moved from the four-footed beast to the two-footed, but it still quite simple. No walls can hold the Red Death! I hold illimitable dominion over all!”

Just then, the clock began to strike midnight.

And the rest was a blur of noise and cries.

WHOOSH!

“Sherlock!”

BANG!

“Mycroft!”

ROWR!

“John!”

CREEEEAK!

“Gregory!”

SMASH!

“POLICE! WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED!”

* * *

“I told you I only had one friend as a child, John.”

“Yeah, but that was all you told me.”

“Because that was all I remembered!”

“The murders jogged your memory?”

Sherlock nodded. “When I finally heard his voice, it all came flooding back. I thought Victor Trevor was my only friend, but in truth, it was he who killed my only friend in a fit of jealousy.”

“Your only friend was Redbeard?”

“Yes, he was an Irish setter.”

“I love Irish setters!”

Sherlock laughed. “We’re learning quite a lot about each other on this case, aren’t we?”

“So the plague?” asked John, frowning and scratching his chest.

Sherlock shook his head. “Lestrade was right. It was a bluff. It’s not easy to weaponise the plague. Victor’s talent was cruelty. He wasn’t really…”

“An evil genius?”

Sherlock huffed. “Evil, yes, and I’ll go so far as to call him ‘clever’ when it came to killing individuals, but he got overwhelmed by the spectacle of the masquerade.”  

John snorted. “Well, he wasn’t alone in that respect. And you knew about the Black Room?”

“Of course. I read the story, John.”

“Did you know Mycroft was Prince Prospero?”

“No, honestly, I didn’t even know he was guest until I saw him in the White Room.”

“You recongised him?!”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, and then I knew he was Prince Prospero.”

“How?”

“I know my brother. Mycroft would never attend an orgy he wasn’t in charge of.”

John giggled.

Sherlock continued, “And when you got strangled by the real orangutan, I knew there had to be a fake one. I found it, re-programmed it, and hid it inside the base of the clock.”

“When?”

“When you were in the loo.”

John laughed. “Was I gone that long? You know, you nearly gave me a heart attack when you climbed off the balcony.”

“When I regained my memories of Victor and Redbeard, the Red Death’s hold on me lifted. I wasn’t sickened by him anymore. I let him catch me in the net.”

“Which you cut.”

“Which I surreptitiously cut. I knew he wanted a final showdown with Mycroft, the one he held responsible for being institutionalised as a child. And I knew you and Lestrade would show up.”

“When I saw you drop from the sky like bloody Batman…”

Sherlock smiled.

“…right on top of him…and then the bloody orangutan jumped out of the bottom of the clock and tipped the whole works on top of him…if I hadn’t been terrified of dying of the plague, I would’ve applauded.”

Sherlock’s smile faded. “Victor still got a shot off.”

John nodded. “A mere scratch. I suspect Mycroft has been dealt much worse. And who knows? Maybe it’ll be a good thing. He might get a bit of sympathy from…”

John’s voice faltered as Greg marched by with a phalanx of police officers.

Sherlock shook his head. “Doubtful. I’d feel sorry for him if he wasn’t such an ass. John…”

“Not here. Let’s get out of these shock blankets and go home.”

Sherlock placed his hand on John’s and squeezed.

John smiled. Then he leaned and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s shoulder. “How does the story end?”

Sherlock lifted his chin and recited, “ _’And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all_.’”

“Not tonight,” said John. “Not on our watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't squint too hard at this resolution, but, hey, you know what? It is no _less_ coherent than BBC Sherlock's S4's "The Final Problem" (And I would argue that a robotic orangutan is better than a mad sister in the attic, but YMMV) And for all those not familiar with Scooby Doo cartoon, one of the quintessential elements of the villain reveal in the finale of each episode was the 'unmasking' so there is a tribute to that here. And because I hate to torture my Mystrade readers I've added a short epilogue.


	14. Epilogue

Two weeks later, Greg was sitting at his desk in the wee hours of the morning when a shadow darkened the doorway of his office. He looked up and asked,

“How’s the arm?”

“Never better,” replied Mycroft quickly. “Congratulations on closing the case, Detective Inspector.”

“What I don’t understand about the case,” said Greg as he leaned back in his chair and made a show of moving a stack of folded newspapers from one side of his desk to the other, “is how you, Mister Holmes, can organise a one-thousand-person orgy in a castle, trap a serial killer, and be wounded in the process and not once have your name mentioned anywhere, in any press or report, official or unofficial.”

“Just a knack,” said Mycroft with a bland smile. “Credit went where it was due. To New Scotland Yard.”

Greg snorted. “And your poncey brother.”

Mycroft shifted his grip on his umbrella. “I apologise, Detective Inspector.”

Greg nodded and looked down at his desk. “That all?”

“One last matter.” Mycroft took a deep breath. “Are you able to compartmentalise?”

Greg looked up at Mycroft, then let his gaze drift to the space beside Mycroft’s head. He cocked his head in contemplation, then shrugged. “With the job, I suppose I have to. I mean, you take this work home with you,” he tapped a closed file, “and you end up shooting bogies in the mirror, no? I also drink heavily, Mister Holmes.”

Mycroft nodded. “I suppose I am asking if your regard, or lack thereof, in one aspect of life might transfer or be withheld in another aspect.”

Greg sighed. “Mister Holmes, I’m going to give you one chance to come to the point and then I’m going to kick you out of my office.”

“Might I close the door?”

Greg waved a hand.

Mycroft closed the door.

“I thought during the masquerade we discovered that we have a not-unsubstantial amount of sexual compatibility. We work long, stressful hours. If, at a mutually-agreed-upon place and time in the future, we wanted to relieve some of that stress in ways that satisfy us both, would you be interested?”

“Fuck,” said Greg, rising to his feet.

Mycroft took one step backwards.

Greg circled the desk and stood before him.

“Do I have to trust you or even like you to fuck you? Is that what you’re asking, Mister Holmes?”

“That’s precisely what I’m asking, Detective Inspector. I trust you implicitly, and I like you even more, and if I found myself in need of discipline,” Greg felt his eyelids close of their own accord at the word, “or restraint, would you be interested in providing it?”

“Christ, even if I don’t trust you? Or like you?”

“Yes. I am a bastard, Detective Inspector, but I am a _discreet_ bastard.”

Greg leaned forward until his lips were almost touching Mycroft’s and whispered, “The way you say words, it makes me hard.”

Mycroft blinked. “Well, if it matters at all, I find myself with a reciprocal affliction.”

Greg looked down.

Mycroft had a white-knuckled grip on the hand of his umbrella.

“I’d be more than willing to ease your condition right here, Detective Inspector, on my knees or…”

“Or?”

“There’s a car waiting downstairs.”

“Which will take us where?”

Mycroft waved. “Around the city and back. As long as we’d like.”

“For the record:  I don’t trust you.”

Mycroft nodded his head and swallowed. “Understood.”

“All right.” Greg turned and leaned across the desk. He opened a drawer, removed something, and shut the drawer. “Let’s go.” He held up the pair of handcuffs and one corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched.

* * *

“Fuck, you take my cock so well!”

Mycroft whimpered into the leather seat.

“How’s it? Hurting?” asked Greg, running an appraising hand along Mycroft’s left arm.

Mycroft turned his head. “Fuck the arm!”

Greg laughed. “Maybe next time.”

Mycroft’s arms were handcuffed behind him. He was nude, save for tie and socks and Greg’s prick was fully sheathed inside him.

Greg held Mycroft’s hips as he thrust. He looked down and almost cooed, “Feels so good. I’m ready. Just like that.”

Mycroft lifted his arse.

“Oh, you little…” Greg slapped the side of Mycroft’s buttock and came.

He unlocked the handcuffs and let them fall to the floor. Then he tied off the condom and wrapped it in a tissue.

He rubbed Mycroft’s arms, then moved up until his body rested on Mycroft’s, his chest to Mycroft’s back. He pressed his lips to the nape of Mycroft’s neck.

“This may work.”

Mycroft nodded.

“God,” Greg kissed Mycroft’s neck again, then licked it, then he ran a possessive hand down the length of Mycroft’s body, “you were right about one thing: we are bloody compatible.”

Mycroft hummed.

“But you lied to me, Mycroft. You used me and kept me in the dark and no amount of credit or glory after the fact will change that. And you did endanger people unnecessarily, and that’s against everything I stand for.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t lie to you again like that.”

“You will. It’s the way you work.”

“Work, yes, but not like that. You have no reason to believe me, but I did want you there for the case. I was going to tell you everything and then…”

“And then what?”

“I thought I’d just, well, get some ideas of what kinds of things you liked so that I could develop some skill in whatever they were. Just in case. For the future. But then, everything was going so well, so fast, I just didn’t want it to stop.”

“Let’s try it.”

“What?”

“The truth. The arm?”

“Hurts like hell.”

Greg turned Mycroft over gently, then raised him to sitting. “That’s better.” His hand brushed Mycroft’s stiff prick.

“Don’t,” said Mycroft. “I don’t deserve it.”

“You have painkillers?”

“Of course.”

“Do you take them?”

“No.”

“I’m going to administer a painkiller by wrapping my mouth ‘round your prick and sucking it until you come.” He ran a gentle hand along Mycroft’s ribs. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“When’s the last time you slept?” snapped Mycroft.

Greg looked into Mycroft’s eyes. “What if you took me home and we had…” He frowned.

“It’s four in the morning,” supplied Mycroft helpfully.

“…thank you, breakfast, and I made you take a real painkiller and I crawled in that big bed of yours and slept beside you until tomorrow and we got up and fucked all day, like the whole world was watching?”

Mycroft’s lip quivered.

“If I promised all that, Mister Holmes, would you let me bury my head between your legs and give your undeserving prick a nice, long, palliative suck?” Greg bent his head and licked one of Mycroft’s nipples with a curled tongue.

“You drive a hard bargain, Detective Inspector.”

“You could drive a hard prick, Mister Holmes, into my mouth."

“Deal.”

Greg grinned.

* * *

“All right,” said John, wiping the mirror again and admiring his own face. “Nice and smooth.”

The taps squeaked. The shower curtain was drawn aside.

“Come here, John.”

“No. Absolutely not. We’ll be late and miss our flight.”

“John.” Sherlock’s tone was a seductive rumble.

“We’re going on holiday, Sherlock. Three whole weeks of sun and sand and ocean views and all the frolicking our two transports can endure.”

“Oh, well, if the prophet won’t come in the mountain…”

“When did I become the mountain? Or are you the mountain? I’m confused.”

“John Watson’s confused. _Quelle surprise!_ Then, the mountain will have to rut against…”

John’s towel was yanked from his hips.

Sherlock stood behind him and began to grind against John’s naked buttocks.

“You are a cat, aren’t you?” said John, watching Sherlock’s face in the mirror.

Sherlock winked and began to purr.

John found a tube and held it over his shoulder. “Lube?”

Sherlock took the lube, and very soon there were splashes across John’s back.

Sherlock cleaned John with a wet flannel.

“Now, I’ve got a problem,” said John, turning his erection towards Sherlock.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Sherlock sat on the edge of the tub and smacked his lips.

John paused and caressed Sherlock’s cheek with his hand. “Sleeping better?”

Sherlock nodded. “No more nightmares.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” said John softly. “Sherlock…”

“I know.” He licked the entire length of one side of John’s shaft.

“Quickly, please,” said John, looking at his watch. “We really do have a plane to catch.”

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “And it really is much easier without a mask.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
